Just a year later the father of this woman of mysterious tragedy died, the last decade of his life beclouded by the sorrowful story and painful doubt. In his will was this pathetic clause: “I make no provision in this will for my beloved daughter, H. C. Dorothy Arnold, as I am satisfied that she is dead.” The death of Miss Arnold’s father once more set the rumor mongers to work and a variety of tales, bolder than had been uttered before, were circulated through the demi-world of New York and hinted in the newspapers. These rumors have not been printed directly and there has thus been no need of denial on part of the family. It must be said at once that they are mere bruits, mere attempts on the part of the cynical town to invent a set of circumstances to fit what few facts and alleged facts are known. On the other hand, the newspapers have been only too ready to take seriously the most absurd fabulations. In 1916, for instance, a thief arrested at Providence, R. I., for motives best known to himself, declared that he had helped to bury Dorothy Arnold’s body in the cellar of a house about ten miles below West Point, near the J. P. Morgan estate. Commissioner Joseph A. Faurot, Captain Grant Williams and a number of detectives provided with digging tools set out for the place in motor cars, closely pursued by other cars containing the newspaper reporters. The police managed to shake off the newspaper men and reached the house. There they dug till they ached and found nothing whatever. Returning to New York, the detectives left their shovels, some of which were rusty or covered with a red clay, at a station house and there the reporters caught a glimpse of them. The result was that a bit of rust or ferrous earth translated itself into blood and thence into headlines in the morning papers, declaring that Dorothy Arnold’s body had been found. Denials followed within hours, to be sure. So the case rests. Perhaps, in some year to come, approaching death will open the lips of one or another who knows the secret and has been sealed to silence by the fears and needs of life. But it is just as likely that the words of her dying parent contain as much as can be known of the truth about the missing Dorothy Arnold. VIII EDDIE CUDAHY AND PAT CROWE At seven o’clock on the bright winter evening of December 18, 1900, Edward A. Cudahy, the multimillionaire meat packer, sent his fifteen-year-old son to the home of a friend, with a pile of periodicals. The boy, Edward A., junior, but shortly to be known over two continents as Eddie Cudahy, left his father’s elaborate house at No. 518 South Thirty-seventh Street, Omaha, walked three blocks to the home of Doctor Fred Rustin, also in South Thirty-seventh Street, delivered the magazines, turned on his heel and disappeared.