A quarter of a mile away a red glow marked the spot where the Gotha had crashed, although the actual wreckage was hidden by a considerable concourse of people, both military and civilian, who signified their delight at the raider's downfall by prolonged and lusty cheers. An anti-aircraft officer, his features partly hidden by the upturned collar of his "British warm", hurried up to the spot where Derek was standing. "Sorry, old man!" he exclaimed apologetically. "I was responsible for bringing you down, I'm afraid. Didn't know that any of our machines were up. No telephone message came through to us. I hadn't a chance to distinguish the markings on your plane. Deuced sorry--very!" "There's little harm done," replied Derek as well as his chattering teeth would allow. "My fault entirely. I ought to have----" "No fear!" replied the anti-aircraft man. "My mistake absolutely. Here; it's no use arguing the point about responsibility. You're coming back to our mess and to get a fresh rig-out." Up dashed a closed-in motor-car. Into this Derek was assisted, the battery captain accompanying him, and amid the cheers of the now dense crowd of sightseers the destroyer of the Gotha was borne away. A hot bath and a change of clothing provided by willing hands quickly restored Derek to an almost normal condition--but not quite. Pardonably he was excited at the thought of having accomplished a good deed, but in reply to numerous congratulations he frankly stated that it was a piece of sheer good luck. News of the destruction of the raider and the victor's crash into the reservoir had been promptly telephoned to Torringham aerodrome, and in reply came the curtly-official message:-- "From O.W. to Second-Lieutenant D. Daventry, R.A.F.--Await arrival of salvage-party. Forward report forthwith--Ack, ack, ack." The last three words, be it understood, do not bear any relationship to the Teutonic "Hoch, hoch, hoch", but are the usual official way of indicating that a telegraphic or telephonic message is ended. Generally speaking, the smaller the mess the more hospitably strangers are treated, and at Sisternbury there was no exception to the rule. Although the mess was composed of a captain, a lieutenant, and two subalterns only, the officers did everything they could for the comfort of the crashed pilot. In spite of the fact that it was early morning and Derek had had very little sleep during the last twenty hours, the young officer tossed restlessly on his bed. The events of the midnight pursuit and its startling finish were photographed so vividly on his brain that he could not banish the mental vision of the Gotha streaming earthwards in flames. Then, just as Daventry was falling into a fitful slumber, he was awakened by a batman bringing him a large cup of hot, sugarless tea, with the announcement that it was eight o'clock and that the salvage-party had arrived.