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(L()£!^) By Noilm/3Ki)ct- This story was written from the Photoplay of SHANNON FIFE James Gresham was dead. On all the earth there was no one to mourn him, unless it were tiny Ruth, his granddaughter, shedding weak, little, eight-year-old tears over her doll, and perhaps old Wilks, the butler, who had known his master, good and bad, for fifty years. Many a child left a greater lack behind than he—this silent old hoarder, with his covetous eyes and secretive smile that never parted his lips as tho in fear of letting a secret out or drawing in a breath of human fellowship. For years he had hidden in his dusty, gray home like an old, hoary spider, and for prey. For years, gossip tongues whis- pered, he had watched the pile of his wealth mount higher by painful, ant- like degrees, until somewhere behind the blank, white face of the house was stored a treasure rich as the fabled Kidd's—gold and jewels, they said, with awed nudges, for the old man would change none of his golden pleasure into dingy bonds or stocks. And now he lay dead in the common .democracy of the grave. Not one bright disk of metal should he ever touch lovingly, nor catch, in his dark, narrow home, the warming fire of a single jewel. '' The girl gets it all, whatever it is,'' yawned Henry Collins. He and his partner—brother John—stooped over the will that named them the legal advisers and trustees of Ruth Gresham until she became of age. "I expect the most of the talk about Gresham's fortune was old wives' gossip, but we '11 have to find out. Did "Wilks give you the keys?" "This morning—yes." John drew them from his pocket. "Funny one, this " He touched a small, twisted, crooked thing dangling from the ring. "Hang it all, if vit doesn't look like the old fellow himself, somehow!" " The key to his soul—or his strong- box," said his brother, lightly. '"There's great talk about secret rooms and chests of wealth, but I wager it boils down to a pretty low figure before we get thru. We'll run up tonight and take a look at things." '' Tonight ? Ugh! The old place is gloomy enough in broad daylight," objected John. '' Pooh! You always were afraid of ghosts," laughed the other, affection- ately. "And, anyhow, the Bennett case comes up in sessions next week, and we've no time to be digging for buried treasure then." "Wilks," asked the child, solemnly, "Wilks, is my gran'dad goned to Heaven?" The old butler stifled his private doubts on the subject and nodded valiantly. " 'Course he is, Miss Ruth," he agreed, " 'course he is. He's singing psalms and playing his harp right lively up yonder this blessed minute." "Gran'dad '11 like Heaven, 'cause the streets 'n' houses is all maded of 43