The murderer and the murderess do not as a rule go about allowing their features to express their guilt. There are many crimes yet to be discovered; many which never, perhaps, will be discovered, the authors of which are going about among their fellow-citizens, keeping up appearances, and passing for very amiable and worthy people. Wainwright, who murdered Harriett Lane, had the reputation of being "a good fellow." He had excellent social qualities, and was always welcomed by his acquaintances because of his good spirits and cheery views of life. All the time that the body of the woman he had murdered was lying under the floor of his warehouse in Whitechapel, Henry Wainwright was earning golden opinions of all sorts of people. He was highly appreciated as a temperance lecturer, and of many a family gathering or festival he was the life and soul. And all the time the terror of discovery was gnawing at his heart. Shortly after his arrest I met a man who had been his intimate friend for years. He told me that on the last occasion they spent an evening together he had asked Wainwright how he managed always to look so supremely happy. Wainwright did not tell him that the smile was a mask he wore to impose on society. He said instead that he was happy because he had a good digestion and a clear conscience. A friend and _confrère_ of mine had a cook-housekeeper--a middle-aged woman whose smiling good humour made her a general favourite. One day a man of fifty-five was arrested for the murder of the woman with whom he lived, and who was supposed to be his wife. This man was tried, convicted, and executed. On the morning of the execution the housemaid came to my _confrère's_ room in a state of great excitement and told him that the housekeeper had fallen down "suddenly all of a heap," and was in a dead faint. When the master went downstairs he found the poor woman had recovered and was sitting in a chair. She was very white and ill, and when he spoke kindly to her she began to cry. He sent the other servants out of the room and asked her what was the matter. Then, feeling probably that she _must_ confide in some one, she told him the truth. The man who had that morning been hanged was her husband. He had deserted her for the other woman six years previously, and she had not seen him since. She had read of the murder, the arrest, and the conviction, and with a great effort had concealed the agony the tragedy had caused her. She had gone about her work smiling and amiable as ever, and it was only on the day that she knew her husband was dying on the gallows that the tension proved too much for her heart-strings and she broke down and let the mask fall.