above lurid title, I laughed in his--I mean the telephone's
face.

"My dear fellow!" I said (I should only have the nerve to call
him that over a wire). It would ruin me! How could I keep my
self-respect and write that kind of sensational stuff--Why do
men kill? Why do men eat? Why do men drink? Why do men
love? Why do men--"

"Look here!" he interrupted. I want to know why one man kills
another man. If we knew why, maybe we could stop it, couldn't
we? We could try to, anyhow. And you know something about
it. You've prosecuted nearly a hundred men for murder. Get
the facts--that's what I want. Cut the adjectives and
morality, and get down to the reasons. Anything particularly
undignified about that?" And he rang off.

I arose and walked over to the bookcase on which reposed
several shelves of "minutes" of criminal trials. They were
dusty and depressing. Practically every one of them was a
memento of some poor devil gone to prison or to the chair.
Where were they now--and why did they kill--yes, why DID they?

I glanced along the red-labeled backs.

"People versus Candido." Now why did HE kill? I remembered
the Italian perfectly. He killed his friend because the
latter had been too attentive to his wife. "People versus
Higgins." Why did he? That was a drunken row on a New Year's
Eve within the sound of Trinity chimes. "People versus