The "P-boat's" original conning-tower was still in existence, although, owing to the new superstructure, its sphere of usefulness was considerably curtailed. Another had been built for'ard.
Cavendish walked right round the latter and never spotted it. Outwardly, nothing was to be seen but a big reel of wire hawser. The reel was a dummy, being actually the hood of the armoured conning-tower.
"See the idea?" inquired Carr. "If, by a bit of luck, we do fall in with a pirate, he'll start shelling the bridge. We found that with Fritz. Let him shell. There'll be no one there, and from this little box of tricks our skipper can keep an eye on him until he decides it's time to put him in his place—to wit, Davy Jones his locker."
"What's your opinion about the loss of these merchant vessels?" asked Cavendish.
Carr shook his head.
"Ask me another," he replied. "That's what we're sent to find out."
The Complex was now well down the Solent. Yarmouth(1) was on the port bow, Lymington to starboard, and the high light of Hurst right ahead, rising like a needle out of the sun-flecked water.
A light cruiser, with her distinguishing signals displayed and a commodore's broad pennant flying from the masthead, came pelting along, passing the decoy ship a cable's length to port. The Complex dipped her ragged, smoke-begrimed Red Ensign. Carr and Cavendish exchanged glances.
"I was expecting the 'Still' to sound," declared the former. "Wonder what Old Man Meredith thought of it all?"
As a matter of fact, Captain Meredith, D.S.O. (with bar), had almost given himself away, and his vessel as well, by ordering the strangely-garbed crew to attention. To deliberately ignore a commodore's broad pennant was the most trying experience he had had that day, which was saying a lot.