The Golden Quest

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REX BRODFORD smiled as he stared from the window of his cab. Broadway lights were glimmering with early evening brilliance. Times Square presented a kaleidoscopic luster of ever-changing illumination.

Hurrying throngs beneath the vari-hued glow. Raucous horns; shrill whistles; the surflike roar of traffic — all formed a symphony that symbolized New York. The medley was music to Rex Brodford. He was back in the metropolis after years of absence.

Broadway’s glare showed Rex Brodford as a young man of less than thirty. His features were large, yet well molded. His heavy eyebrows were set beneath a broad forehead that was matched by the squareness of his chin. Smooth-shaven, his cheeks were dark with tropical tan.

Rex Brodford looked like a man who had returned from some foreign clime. The maturity of his sun-dyed face was evidence of the ten years that he had spent in Central America. Even his smile betokened him as a man who had overcome hazards. For Rex Brodford’s lips bore only the slightest upward curve.

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