“‘Maybe,’ he answered doggedly. ‘But I’m a Highlander, and—I would not care to hear that tune.’ “I could see Jack was impressed; as a matter of fact I was myself—more than I cared to admit. Sounds rot here, I know, but out there, with the dim-lit forest around one, it was different. “McAndrew was stopping with us that night. Jack, with the stubbornness of the young, had flatly refused to change his room, and turned in early, while Mac and I sat up talking. And it was not till we went to bed ourselves that I again alluded to the whistle. “‘You don’t really think it meant anything, Mac, do you?’ I asked him, and he shrugged his shoulders. “‘Maybe it is just a native who has heard it,’ he said guardedly, and further than that he refused to commit himself. “I suppose it was about two o’clock when I was awakened by a hand being thrust through my mosquito curtains. “‘Walton, come at once!’ It was McAndrew’s voice, and it was shaking. ‘There’s devil’s work going on, I tell you—devil’s work.’ “I was up in a flash, and together we crept along the passage towards Jack’s room. Almost instinctively I’d picked up a gun, and I held it ready as we paused by the door. “‘Do you hear it?’ whispered Mac a little fearfully, and I nodded. Sweet and clear the notes rose and fell, on and on and on in the same cadence. Sometimes the whistler seemed to be far away, at others almost in the room. “‘It’s the tune,’ muttered McAndrew, as we tiptoed towards the bed. ‘The Pipes of Death. Are ye awake, boy?’ “And then he gave a little cry and gripped my arm. “‘In God’s name,’ he whispered, ‘what’s that on the pillow beside his head?’ “For a while in the dim light I couldn’t make out. There was something big and black and motionless on the white pillow, and I crept nearer to see what it was. And then suddenly seemed to stand still. I saw two beady, unwinking eyes staring at Jack’s face close by; I saw Jack’s eyes wide open and sick with terror, staring at the thing which shared his bed. And still the music went on outside. “‘What is it?’ I muttered through dry lips. “‘Give me your gun, man,’ whispered McAndrew hoarsely. ‘If the pipes stop, the boy’s doomed.’ “Slowly he raised the gun an inch at a time, pushing the muzzle forward with infinite care towards the malignant, glowing eyes, until at last the gun was almost touching its head. And at that moment the music died away and stopped altogether. I had the momentary glimpse of two black feelers shooting out towards Jack’s face—then came the crack of the gun. And with a little sob Jack rolled out of bed and lay on the floor half-fainting, while the black mass on the pillow writhed and writhed and then grew still. “We struck a light, and stared at what was left of the thing in silence. And it was Jack who spoke first.