One day in September 1824, Mr J. D. Hulme, an official of the Custom House, wishing to examine a list of investments belonging to an estate of which he had become a trustee, paid a visit to the Bank of England. To his amazement he found that a sum of £10,000 in Consols was missing, and inquiry proved that the stock had been sold by the Berners Street manager under a power of attorney. On the advice of Mr Freshfield, solicitor of the bank, an application was made to Mr Conant of Marlborough Street, who was induced to grant a warrant for the arrest of the suspected man. At last the wily Fauntleroy had been caught napping; for although he was aware that there was a risk of exposure, and had made preparations to reinvest the stolen Consols, he had not yet been able to complete the transaction. During the whole of Thursday night, Samuel Plank, chief-officer of Marlborough Street, finding that the banker was away from home, paraded Berners Street watching for his return. On the next morning, the 10th of September, at his usual hour, the grave, neatly dressed forger walked into his place of business. A mean trick marked the arrest. Mr Goodchild, the other co-trustee of the plundered estate, entered the counting-house a few moments before Plank, and proceeded into the private office, while the constable, pretending to cash a cheque, remained at the counter. When through the half-closed door of the inner room he saw that the victim and decoy were closeted together, the police-officer pushed past the astonished clerks, explaining that he wanted to speak to their employer. As Fauntleroy raised his eyes from his desk, and saw a warrant in the intruder’s hand, he realised that the visit of his friend was merely a device to place him in the hand of the law. “Good God!” exclaimed the doomed man. “Cannot this business be settled?” And tradition relates that he offered Plank a bribe of ten thousand pounds to allow him to escape. But the officer proved incorruptible, and soon the banker was standing in the presence of his astonished friend, Magistrate John Conant, who, though sore distressed, was compelled to commit him to Coldbath Fields prison. “I alone am guilty,” cried the wretched Fauntleroy, in a burst of penitence. “My colleagues did not know!” Like the great model whom he had striven to emulate, the vain man had found his Moscow. No longer was he the dandy banker of Berners Street, whose friendship had been sought by so many rich men from the City. The days of the lavish Corinthian, the associate of ‘bang-up pinks and bloods’ had passed away for ever, and he had become a criminal, standing beneath the shadow of the gallows!