The man shook his head with a smile that was in the nature of a mild sneer.
“Doubting Thomas! He won't admit it, but he can't deny it! Ah, so wise! So clever in his suspicions! So intelligently skeptical! Ah yes!”
Still nodding in ironical admiration, he approached the filing-cabinet.
“Let me see—you are 7-7-77.” He pulled out drawer seven in section seven and took out an envelope from which he drew a lot of papers. He read a typewritten sheet. He replaced the papers, closed the drawer, turned, and stared doubtfully at Tom, muttering half to himself: “I don't know! I don't know!”
“What?” asked Tom.
“Do you really want her? Do you feel that you must meet her soon or die?”
Tom knew he would not die if he did not meet her soon, but as for wanting her, he certainly did. Every cell in his body was on the alert, waiting for her, hoping to see her; and adventure, through a megaphone, was vociferating in the middle of his soul: “Come! Come!” Therefore Tom looked the man straight in the eyes and answered:
“Yes, I do!”
The man hesitated. Then he said:
“Listen! It is for the last time. Do you hear? For the last time! Do you agree?”