"What does it say?" said his mother.Evan did not answer. He was looking at the leaf at his feet, with the cold typed capitals running across the cream like a row of small black teeth, and the whole of the great domed chamber was full of falling paper, and for the length of one long breath he could not make his mouth do anything at all.It was Voss who moved.He stepped between Evan and the drift of leaves and put up his hand, very slowly, palm out, in the gesture a man makes to a horse that is thinking of bolting."Do not read it out," he said. "Please. Mrs. Vale. Mr. Fenn. Do not say what it says." His voice was pitched low and flat, the voice of a man who has been trained for thirty-one years to be audible only to the person he is addressing. "I should like everyone to be quiet for a moment. I should like to try something. I have an idea, and it is a very unpleasant one.""I will be quiet," said Evan's mother, "when I am told what I am being quiet about."A leaf fell onto the lamp