Ingpen's enquiring apprehensive dumb glance silenced the clumsy greeting. It was just as if he had rebuked: "This is no time for How d'ye do's." When he had apparently made sure that Edwin was Edwin, Ingpen turned his eyes to the nurse.
"Water," he whispered.
The nurse shook her head.
"Net yet," she replied, with tepid indifference.
Ingpen's eyes remained on her a moment and then went back to Edwin.
"Ed," he whispered, and gazed once more at the nurse, who, looking away from the bed, did not move.
Edwin bent over the bed.
"Ed," Ingpen demanded, speaking very deliberately. "Go to my office. In the top drawer of the desk in the bedroom there's some photos and letters.... Burn them.... Before morning.... Understand?"
Edwin was profoundly stirred. In his emotion was pride at Ingpen's trust, astonishment at the sudden, utterly unexpected revelation, and the thrill of romance.
He thought: