CHAPTER XXII. IN DOWNING STREET The Prime Minister tapped the desk in front of him with nervous fingers. His face was worn and harassed. He took up his conversation with Mr. Carter at the point it had broken off. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Do you really mean that things are not so desperate after all?” “So this lad seems to think.” “Let’s have a look at his letter again.” Mr. Carter handed it over. It was written in a sprawling boyish hand. “DEAR MR. CARTER, “Something’s turned up that has given me a jar. Of course I may be