"Very pleasant. And thank you. But before you go, taste this whisky. It
will help you when you enter the wind."

He opened a cabinet in the side of the chair and brought out a black
bottle and a pair of glasses and put them on the broad arm of the chair.
Donnegan sauntered back.

"You see," he murmured, "you will not let me go."

At this the colonel raised his head suddenly and glared into the eyes of
his guest, and yet so perfect was his muscular and nerve control that he
did not interrupt the thin stream of amber which trickled into one of
the glasses. Looking down again, he finished pouring the drinks. They
pledged each other with a motion, and drank. It was very old, very oily.
And Donnegan smiled as he put down the empty glass.

"Sit down," said the colonel in a new voice.

Donnegan obeyed.

"Fate," went on the colonel, "rules our lives. We give our honest
endeavors, but the deciding touch is the hand of Fate."

He garnished this absurd truism with a wave of his hand so solemn that
Donnegan was chilled; as though the fat man were actually conversant
with the Three Sisters.

"Fate has brought you to me; therefore, I intend to keep you."