Now, as it happens, observant readers will have suspected that the two ogres standing guard outside the Main Cavern, and referred to by Theresa as Gog and Magog, are in fact the amnesiac ex-Russian Oilygarchs, beneficiaries of post-Perestroika dekulakization and now named by Sir Parlane MacFarlane as Digby and Percy, but formerly known to their Mothers and Fathers as Paderewski Varolov, and Dmitri Dosvedanya! yes indeed, the very same who just a short while ago (in our very own Present Time) had met with the two Professors Sir Clement Dane, and the Very Reverend Angus MacAngus in the Town House Hotel in Melrose with a view to stealing from the three naïve Scots, the manuscript diary, or Journal, of Sir Parlane MacFarlane only to find themselves apparently deceased at the hands of MacAngus – much to his intense shame at slaying the leviathans and delight that he had it in him – and it is rather surprising that, with a diet rich in protein, their hair allowed to grow and grow and grow wild on their heads and faces, bodies tanned and weather-beaten from exposure to the elements with minimal covering, they do indeed exhibit much in common with the Puddin Race who have happily adopted them, and taught them sufficient in their Dundonian Dialect to pass for natives in this new Home from Home, this recreation of their own three-peaked mountain across Time and Space; but the gold teeth have been niggling away in Theresa's mind since she and Robin started on their Woolly Mammoth Burgers on huge doorstep baps and with a portion of Rocky Mountain Fries on the side; she has seen them before, she muses, giving free rein to her imaginarianism – not being one to peer regularly into the gaping maws of such patently malevolent maulers and bruisers – but where? and the faintest memory of waiting for a train from Melrose to Edinburgh comes almost unbidden to mind, of catching sight of the Danes and MacAngus, loitering suspiciously behind a sign ordering passengers not to leave items of luggage or parcels unattended or they may be blown up by the Bomb Squad and she notes the small satchel MacAngus holds tightly to his chest' and then again, when the train arrives, the last two passengers to descend, elbowing Theresa aside, two gruff and burly beefcake, who stand side by side as Theresa climbs aboard and finds a seat by the window where she can watch the two, standing, waiting, chewing um and muttering to each other, and then, the big wide grins, just for a fraction of a millisecond, but just long enough for the sun to catch those gold fillings before the welcome party reaches them and it becomes all business, as the visitors are ushered off the platform and into a waiting taxi: "those twa Giant Haystacks ootside," she confides to Robin, "ah've seed them afore, back hame, dressed like a pair o thay Rooshin Oilygowks, ye ken, hen?" at which Robin nods, though she hasn't the faintest idea whit oan earth Teri is jabberin oan aboot: "these seats is awfy muckle uncomfortable, ur they no?" she asks, squirming in an attempt to get away from one particularly sharp and persistent pressing point, and knowing that her resistentialism is richt an troo and finding here ample proof that some things in the world certainly dae hae minds o their ain an only ane purpose – tae mak life herd an painful fur a wee wummin frae Auchenshoogle!