In one corner of the room was a bed. One leg had been torn off, causing it to touch the floor. On the bed was a grey-haired woman, groaning feebly and with her forehead dabbled in blood. She opened her eyes as Barcroft approached, then raising one hand pointed to the side of the bed. There was a cradle that had hitherto escaped his notice, and in it was a baby of but a few months old. Although the old woman could not speak she made it known that the rescuer should first save her grandchild. Even in that scene of desolation Barcroft could not bring himself to lift the baby from its cot. Dimly he fancied that he might harm it. He hadn't the faintest notion how to hold an infant of tender years. Lifting the cot bodily he bore it with its contents down the stairs and out into the night. By this time other rescuers were hard at work. Two of them seeing the flight-sub issuing from the house came up to him. "D'ye want a hand, sir?" they asked. The uniform imparted an air of authority, and instinctively the men realised the fact. True the naval rig was foreign to them. For all they knew Barcroft might be a sanitary inspector or a school-attendance officer, but his peaked cap and naval blue coat denoted an official of some sort, and, in cases of this description, the distinction carries weight. "Yes, there's a woman injured in that house," replied the flight-sub, setting down his burden. One of the men bent over the cradle and drew back the covering. Then he hastily replaced it. "Might have saved yourself the trouble, sir," he gulped. "Those baby-killing swine! If that cursed Zep, should happen to fall anywhere round about and any of the devils are left alive, I bet my last shilling the women-folk o' Barborough 'ud tear 'em limb from limb. An' serve 'em right. Lead on, sir." Not until the last of the living victims of the outrage had been removed from this section of the bombed district did Barcroft and his willing helpers desist from their arduous labours. Nothing more could be done until daybreak. Police guarded the approaches to the devastated street, while firemen stood by, ready at the first sign to tackle a fresh outburst from the still smouldering ruins. "Suppose I ought to try for an hotel," soliloquised the flight-sub. "I don't know. I'm in a horrible mess. Feel like a dustman or a scavenger. Perhaps I'd better carry on. The governor might be a bit anxious if I don't." Receiving fresh directions Barcroft stepped out briskly. Taxis and even tramcars were now out of the question. "Most confusing place I've struck for many a day," he muttered. "I feel completely out of my bearings. I'm supposed to be going north; it's my belief I'm making in a southerly direction."