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      BORGO PRESS BOOKS BY JOHN RUSSELL FEARN

      1,000-Year Voyage: A Science Fiction Novel

      The Crimson Rambler: A Crime Novel

      Don’t Touch Me: A Crime Novel

      The Empty Coffins: A Mystery of Horror

      The Fourth Door: A Mystery Novel

      From Afar: A Science Fiction Mystery

      The G-Bomb: A Science Fiction Novel

      Here and Now: A Science Fiction Novel

      Into the Unknown: A Science Fiction Tale

      The Man Who Was Not: A Crime Novel

      One Way Out: A Crime Novel (with Philip Harbottle)

      Reflected Glory: A Dr. Castle Classic Crime Novel

      Robbery Without Violence: Two Science Fiction Crime Stories

      Shattering Glass: A Crime Novel

      The Silvered Cage: A Scientific Murder Mystery

      Slaves of Ijax: A Science Fiction Novel

      The Space Warp: A Science Fiction Novel

      Vision Sinister: A Scientific Detective Thriller

      What Happened to Hammond? A Scientific Mystery

      Within That Room!: A Mystery of Horror

      REFLECTED GLORY

      A DR. CASTLE

       CLASSIC CRIME NOVEL

      JOHN RUSSELL FEARN

      COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

      Copyright © 1986, 2005 by Philip Harbottle

      Published by Wildside Press LLC

      www.wildsidebooks.com

      DEDICATION

      For Richard A. Lupoff

      CHAPTER ONE

      For quite ten minutes Elsa Farraday had been aware of the young man’s scrutiny and it was commencing to make her feel embarrassed.

      She continued quietly with her lunch, meantime glancing around the crowded London café—yet every time her eyes were drawn to the young man three tables away. And every time his gaze was fixed on her in polite but searching interest.

      By degrees Elsa began to feel annoyed. This was downright rude, even impudent. Being young and attractive-looking, Elsa Farraday was by no means averse to a second glance, but this was too much.

      Frowning to herself she lowered her eyes to her lunch and, for a time, tried to picture the young man mentally. He too was worth a long scrutiny, she decided. He was handsome in a dark kind of way with rather untidy black hair, straight nose, and well-formed jaw and mouth. Perhaps twenty-five, and impeccably dressed. Yes, he was certainly—

      “I say, I hope you’ll excuse me....”

      “Huh?” Elsa looked up with a start. The young man was standing beside her table looking down at her with a seriously apologetic face.

      “I hope you’ll excuse me,” he repeated. “It just occurred to me that you must be thinking I’ve no manners, considering the way I’ve been looking at you.”

      Elsa had grey eyes, and upon occasion they could be very cold. They were now. With her well-shaped mouth rather taut she responded:

      “I was just thinking that you were providing ample evidence of the fact that the age of chivalry is dead!”

      “Yes; I suppose it did look that way.”

      The young man hesitated as though he expected Elsa would invite him to be seated on the remaining chair at the table. She did not. She continued eating her lunch as though be did not exist.

      “I’m most awfully sorry,” he said, after a pause.

      “That is the least you can be,” Elsa responded, with another direct look. “I don’t think I have ever been so thoroughly—er—summed-up in all my life! And I don’t like it! What’s the matter with me? Or do you find a young woman something of a curiosity?”

      “In your case, something of a revelation.” Then as he saw a warm tide steal into the girl’s pale cheeks the young man added hastily, “I—I mean in the artistic sense. You see, I’m Clive Hexley.”

      “Should I be impressed?” Elsa inquired coldly.

      “Well, that depends. I’m an artist. R.A., to be precise. I hope you haven’t got the idea wrong,” Clive Hexley continued ur­gently. “I was studying you so intently because you have just the exact face, throat, and shoulders I’m looking for. For a model, I mean. See here,” he finished, and handed over his card.

      Elsa read:

      Clive Hexley, R.A.

      Cardenworth Studios

      Dell Road, Chelsea

      London

      “I hope,” Clive Hexley added anxiously, “that that somewhat explains my extraordinary conduct.”

      Elsa’s expression slowly changed and the severity gave way to a slight smile.

      “Yes, I suppose it does,” she admitted. She clicked the card between her fingers for a moment and became pensive; then Clive Hexley found her grey eyes upon him again. “So you think I have prospects as a model, do you? That is...quite a fascinating thought.”

      “I’m glad you think so.”

      “Tell me about it,” Elsa suggested, and motioned to the soli­tary chair.

      The young man seated himself and contemplated her again with earnest blue eyes.

      “Well, you see, Miss—er—?”

      “It’s Farraday. Elsa Farraday.”

      “Well, Miss Farraday, I’ve been hunting for the past three months for a young woman with the right features to portray the essential mysticism of a feminine face. The painting is to be called ‘Woman, the Mystery,’ and naturally for a subject like that I have to use features that have just the right suggestion of the enigmatic. I require too the exact turn of the head and line of the throat which from the attitude will—”

      “Mr. Hexley, you are an artist,” Elsa interrupted, smiling. “I am not—in that sense, at least. I can only grasp the essen­tials of your work, I’m afraid. What you mean is: I happen to be the right type of person with the right type of features for your subject?”

      “There’s not the slightest doubt of it. Mind you, I know all this must seem dreadfully informal—for me to suddenly descend on a young lady who is a complete stranger and tell her that she has exactly the right face for a painting. But that is how my work is. I descend on all kinds of people, from beggars to drug ­addicts, from servants to film stars.”

      “And you are a Royal Academician....” Clive Hexley noticed that Elsa had a lazy, fascinating kind of smile that gave just a glimpse of perfect teeth.

      “Yes; and I’m proud of it,” he answered. “Of recent years I have been quite successful, making up for the years when I was not.” He smiled reflectively. “‘Clive Hexley’ on a painting—especially a portrait—actually means something at last. I even have several important commissions.”

      “That’s splendid,” Elsa said, somewhat absently, still ap­parently thinking of something else—and in the quiet moment that followed Clive Hexley had time to notice that she had night-black hair, perfectly contrasted by a rather absurd scarlet hat and scarlet stud earrings.

      “You’ll probably think I’m making the strides of a Gulliver,” he continued, “but would you consent to sit for me? Everything will be perfectly all right,” he added, as she studied him. “Babs—or I should say Barbara—will be there too. That’s Miss Vane, a very good friend of mine, and a professional model. She sort of takes care of the ethics when necessary.”

      Ethics

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