And, as they stirred, the Very Reverend Angus MacAngus looked round anxiously for his titfer – a birthday present from his sister, a Sister in A&E at the BGH who still knitted him a bunnet for every birthday – and the two Professors Sir Clement Dane stared at the bodies of the two Russians; Grigori Rasputin was sitting with his back to the door, smoking a black Russian cigarette he had taken from the pocket of Paderewski Varolov, and was examining his and Dmitri Dosvedanya's passports; "he may be a barracks emperor, back in Russia, but now dead as a doornail," then, as MacAngus whimpered: "don't be getting namby-pamby on me Your Reverence, that's not how to ingratiate yourself at a time like this, now an afflatus! that would be most welcome!" and with that MacAngus felt the Divine Inspiration suffuse itself throughout his body and the Danes and Rasputin swore afterwards that he actually glowed with an inner light and despite one of the Professor half-wondering if it was an Oscar-winning performance, and determined to be blasé about it, the truth is that even had a banshee howled outside the window, they none of them could have taken their eyes off of him; he struggled to his feet, still glowing, and stood over the prone figures of the dead Oilygarchs, pointed at them and, in a tremulous voice, said: "get thee from me Satan!" and, d'you know? it was surely the strangest thine ever, for the light in the room seemed the thicken, as if there was some kind of mist or, as if the very air through which all eyes were fixed on the bodies thickened and became blurred with vaseline, and it seemed to tremble, and then they were gone!