The journey took most of the day – of course it would have been quicker by train, from Queen Street or Central Station to Waverley in Edinburgh and then on the Waverley: Line to Melrose, but to the O'Hares the cost was prohibitive, whereas as a Tram Driver, albeit for Glasgow Corporation, reciprocal arrangements with other areas meant that the couple could get ha'penny tickets everywhere on trams or buses; so they set off early, before the weans had wakened, leaving Kathleen's Mammy in charge, which was no problem to Mrs Rafferty, for hadn't she raised twelve bairns of her own, largely single-handed since Brendan Rafferty had spent much of his working life in America, nine months of each year, and three at home with his ever-growing family; at all events, it was three in the afternoon before they arrived in Melrose, with Kathleen almost throwing herself off the bus at the foot of the High Street, when she saw a solicitor's office across the road with the name Curle, in gold on an upstairs window above a branch of the British Linen Bank; Connor caught up with Kathleen as she reached the top of a flight of stairs and presented herself to a rather severe-looking receptionist: "ah'm sorry tae burst in here, hen, but it's aboot the find at the Roman Camp, Tam an Boabie O'Hare, them's ma twa eldest bhoys an a thocht they wis deid, but they canna be, kin they? canna see Mr Alexander Curle? his name wis in the Evenin Times yestre'en, thon's whaur a see'd it!" and when she paused for breath, the woman smiled, kindly: "take a seat Mrs O'Hare, is this you husband, Mr O'Hare, take a seat; Mr Alexander doesn't work here, but he's at the site today, and I'm sure he'll be delighted to meet you; please wait and I'll send the Office Boy with a note," and she rang a bell, which brought a boy in short trousers and a cap, who eyed the visitors with some disdain, but took the note from the receptionist and trotted down the stairs; the Receptionist said: "I'm Mrs Turnbull, would you like a cup of tea after your long journey, you look fair fashed!" and Kathleen nodded, but added: "kin ye direct me tae the Ladies, hen, Mrs Turnbull, ah'm needin tae gaun afore ah kin tak a drap o tea," and Mrs Turnbull laughed, then took Kathleen through a door to what were obviouslt Staff Only quarters, leaving Connor to pick up a copy of Farmers' Weekly and try to read about sheep and pigs and cows; when they returned, Mrs Turnbull - "call me Jinty," - explained that while this wis the family firm, Mr Alexander hasn't practised Law for many years, he was the first Secretary and then a Commissioner of the Royal Commission on the Ancient and Historical Monuments of Scotland; he's 81 and supposed to be retired, but men like him never really retire," and she walked over to a window and looked out at the street: "ah, here's Oliver coming back, he's carrying some equipment, Mr Curle shouldn't be long now," and soon enough, they heard the boy panting as he came up the stairs: "oh, Mrs Turnbull, ah'm fair peched oot!" but he went into one of the offices and carefully deposited his burden, then gratefully accepted a glass of water from Jinty and shortly another pair of feet could be heard climbing steadily; Alexander Curle was a large, florid gentleman, with snow-white hair and whiskers; he shook hands enthusiastically with the O'Hares and invited them into his office and, when they were seated, he pointed to a kind of box, explaining: "this is my sciopticon, it's a kind of mobile magic lantern, I've got some slides here to show you, and I'll explain what we found and where and how, and what it tells us about the Roman Camp," and all the while he was setting it up: "firstly, let me tell you about the site – it's quite extensive and the first excavations were carried out by my late brother, James; most of his finds are now in the National Museum of Scotland, but things keep turning up and every few years some of us spend some time digging systematically; look, here's an artist's impression of what the Camp may have looked like, with the Eildons in the background, so this view is looking south, and now east, now north, now west; pretty extensive, wasn't it?" and Kathleen asked: "so it's no therr noo?" and Mr Alexander shook his head, "not for over a thousand years, we don't have an actual date for the Roman withdrawal but the stone we found dates from at least 164AD and we know that because of the Roman Date scratched into it, and it's depth beneath not just the surface, but other, later, brickwork which was above it, and epigeal plants which grow on the surface and which form layers as the surface rises; oh, there's no doubt of that – look, I don't want to be abstruse, but every indication of the accuracy of the dating is based on objective physical evidence which supports the genuineness of the message scratched onto the brick, and I am satisfied that no hoaxer could have finessed the stone into it's position, it matches the surrounding stones and is certainly older than the date written on it, and the date of the graffiti tells us that it was put there one thousand, seven hundred, and eighty-three years ago!" and Kathleen fainted!