How did he exercise that sway?  Can I answer?  I cannot.  How does one man influence another?  Not by electric wires or chemical apparatus, but by those secret channels through which intelligence meets intelligence.  All I know is that I felt his sinister authority.  During life Clarenceux, according to every account, had been masterful, imperious, commanding; and he carried these attributes with him beyond the grave.  His was a stronger personality than mine, and I could not hide from myself the assurance that in the struggle of will against will I should not be the conqueror.

Not that anything had occurred, even the smallest thing!  Upon perceiving Rosa the apparition, as I have said, vanished.  We did not say much to each other, Rosa and I; we could not—­we were afraid.  I went to my hotel; I sat in my room alone; I saw no ghost.  But I was aware, I was aware of the doom which impended over me.  And already, indeed, I experienced the curious sensation of the ebbing of volitional power; I thought even that I was losing my interest in life.  My sensations were dulled.  It began to appear to me unimportant whether I lived or died.  Only I knew that in either case I should love Rosa.  My love was independent of my will, and therefore the ghost of Clarenceux, do what it might, could not tear it from me.  I might die, I might suffer mental tortures inconceivable, but I should continue to love.  In this idea lay my only consolation.

I remained motionless in my chair for hours, and then—­it was soon after the clocks struck four—­I sprang up, and searched among my papers for Alresca’s letter, the seal of which, according to his desire, was still intact.  The letter had been in my mind for a long time.  I knew well that the moment for opening it had come, that the circumstances to which Alresca had referred in his covering letter had veritably happened.  But somehow, till that instant, I had not been able to find courage to read the communication.  As I opened it I glanced out of the window.  The first sign of dawn was in the sky.  I felt a little easier.

Here is what I read: 

“My dear Carl Foster:—­When you read this the words I am about to write will have acquired the sanction which belongs to the utterances of those who have passed away.  Give them, therefore, the most serious consideration.

    “If you are not already in love with Rosetta Rosa you soon
    will be.  I, too, as you know, have loved her.  Let me tell you
    some of the things which happened to me.

“From the moment when that love first sprang up in my heart I began to be haunted by—­I will not say what; you know without being told, for whoever loves Rosa will be haunted as I was, as I am.  Rosa has been loved once for all, and with a passion so intense that it has survived the grave.  For months I disregarded the visitations, relying on the strength of my own soul.  I misjudged myself, or, rather, I underestimated