“But you are forgetting that I am at heart a gypsy, that indeed I once was a gypsy, a French gypsy, a very good gypsy.” She smiled. “But a gypsy all the same.” At this instant the lips of Mr. Soloman parted in a low exclamation of excitement.
“So that is who you are!” he exclaimed. “You are the little French girl, Petite Jeanne! For days I have wracked my brain saying to myself, ‘She is not Lorena LeMar. Who is she?’ And now look! You are Petite Jeanne, the star of my most wonderful picture.”
“Oh, Mr. Soloman!” Jeanne’s arms came perilously near encircling his fat neck. “You knew I was a fraud, and yet you let me go on! How—how so very wonderful!”
“A fraud!” he thundered. “No! I did not know you were a fraud. I knew you were a very great star.
“And now, Miss Jeanne,” his voice became confidential, “your name will go on that picture and in the lights of every Broadway of the land, for it was you who made that picture, not Lorena LeMar.”
“Oh!” Jeanne caught her breath. “Do you think that would be right?”
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” came in screams from the crowd.
“And what a story that will make!”
“Boys,” the producer turned to a group of reporters, “those pictures you took, they must go with the greatest story of all time, the story of a double who in two short weeks became a star.”
“Yes! Yes! You bet! Rah, rah, for Jeanne!” came from the reporters.