Spike had been able to gather sufficient proof that the girl was, indeed, the Edward he knew. From her quirks to her knowledge to her trademark calling card, she'd proven her identity. Still, however, he wasn't sure what to expect or just how much he could say. He doubted the network was secure from their captors and, for all he knew, Ed could have been forced to lure him to room 406. Then there was the matter of recognizing the kid. Nineteen: she was nineteen years old by some illogical twist of events (or, at the very least, had been drugged to the point of believing that she was older). Would she look the same?
Things were a little more complicated than would be ideal, but if anyone could get to 'the heads' and crack this prison of a location, they were the ones. (He hoped.) At the very least, the fact that he'd been left armed and Ed had a computer system indicated that they'd been severely underestimated. Such was always an advantage. It sucked that the kid had been dragged into what - if his hunch was correct - would be something akin to Hell without the fire and brimstone; but she was right. If nobody else, they could trust each other. That had to be more than most could say.
When he reached room 406, Spike leaned one shoulder against the door frame and gave it a light kick instead of knocking. Rather than laziness, it was an attempt to blend in with the noises of her computer re-wiring while still getting her attention. (Surely, she would know what her own actions sounded like. She was a professional, after all.) He didn't know where - if anywhere - the metaphorical eyes and ears were in this place, but having nosy residents eavesdrop to see who was visiting didn't sound like a good idea.