"Who was that kid who worked on Bacon's set? Girl—Minnie-something-or-other? Did some stunts one day—made you all laugh. Think she called it a 'Chink Act.'"
"Oh, gee, that little chippy?" Red suffused Letcher's face. A mist was swimming before his eyes. He turned to Beauregard, a choking sound in his throat. "Don't fire me for a thing like that, Mr. Beauregard," he pleaded, his huge head rocking on his neck, "it was Binns that lied to me about her. On my honor, I ain't laid eyes on the little fool since that day. I"
"What's her name and address?" said Deane's quiet, compelling voice. "I want to send for her."
Beauregard laughed at the blank, crestfallen expression on Letcher's face. "Yes, sir. Yes, sir!"
When Letcher was gone: "He's right—she is stupid. Pitiful little kid though. Tried to bluff her way into the studio. They were making a fool of her on Bacon's set. But I watched her. I saw the old spark that we're always searching for. She'll photograph well, and after all the main thing is—she's the type! Pliable if I have patience. I've thought it all over, and I know it's worth the experiment."
"If you believe she's the one, I won't argue over it," and Beauregard relaxed in the swivel chair, drew a cigar from his pocket and held it to his nostrils. "I'll be glad to have you start on the picture, Deane. Don't stint on this one—I'm ready to spend some money. We need a knockout right now. We always depend on you to give one to us."
"You'll get it in this one. It's commonplace enough to be a great commercial success," Deane laughed. "Box office written all over it. Poor girl, rich villain, honest lover, sweet self-sacrificing mother, train wreck, rescue—all the tried and true ingredients of hokum."
George Beauregard moved uneasily and lowered the tight,
