Gentle Mr Baker, the white-haired layman of the map office in the Tower, whose work in the foul dungeon was scarcely less admirable than that of Elizabeth Fry, seems to be more successful in winning the affections of the condemned man than Ordinary Cotton; and the efforts of this good Samaritan are aided by a clergyman from Peckham, named Springett, to whom Fauntleroy had been introduced by a friend. These two are his constant companions during the remainder of his imprisonment. Most of his old associates prove loyal, in spite of his infamy and disgrace, for the fearful penalty of the forger is thought to atone for the greatest of frauds. Meanwhile, exertions for a reprieve continue. The condemned banker is not included in the Recorder’s report on the 20th of November at a meeting of the Council, over which the King is said to have presided, and the case is argued twice before the Judges on the 23rd and 24th of the month. George IV., the only one of the four who was a gentleman, a scholar, or a man of artistic taste, the only one whose foolish egotism did not embroil the country in a costly and bloody war, was also the only one with a merciful heart. His first great fault, for which neither contemporaries nor posterity have forgiven him, was infidelity to a dull, silly, uncleanly wife, whom he was compelled to marry against his will, and who was nothing loth to pay him back in his own coin. His next, that, like the Duke of Wellington and his brother William, he was a lion among the ladies. George IV. is inclined to save Fauntleroy from the scaffold, just as he wished to save all except the murderer. Every effort fails, however, and on Wednesday night, after a meeting of the Privy Council, the Recorder sends his report to Newgate. At half-past six the Rev. Cotton, whose duty it is to break the news of their fate to the prisoners, proceeds to Fauntleroy’s room. The banker, who is reading, looks up as the Ordinary enters, and, observing that he is deeply affected, “Ah, Mr Cotton, I see how it is,” he exclaims. “I expected nothing less than death, and, thank God, I am resigned to my fate.” During the rest of the day he seems more concerned for the doom of Joseph Harwood--a lad of eighteen, condemned to die the next morning for stealing half a crown from the pocket of a drunken Irishman--than for his own dismal situation. Worn out with suspense, he does not awake until a late hour on Thursday, and thus sleep spares him the anguish of hearing the awful bell that is added to the torments of those who go to the scaffold innocent of murder.