Swanson's face was desperately eager. "Burckhardt?" he asked
inquiringly, with an odd intensity. And then he just stood there
silently, watching Burckhardt's face, with a burning eagerness that
dwindled to a faint hope and died to a regret. He was searching for
something, waiting for something, Burckhardt thought. But whatever it
was he wanted, Burckhardt didn't know how to supply it.