Mma Makutsi shook her head. “I am a different lady,” she said. “I am Mma Makutsi. I am the assistant detective.”

The young woman glanced at her, and then looked away. Mma Makutsi noticed that she was fiddling with a handkerchief that she was holding in her hands, twisting it in her anxiety. I used to do the same thing, she thought. I used to do exactly the same thing with my handkerchief when I was anxious. I twisted it at interviews; I twisted it in examinations. And the thought made her feel a rush of sympathy for this woman, whoever she was, and for the problem that had brought her to their doorstep. It would be a man problem, of course; it so often was. She would have been treated badly by some man, perhaps by a man to whom she had lent money. Perhaps she had taken the money from her employer and then lent it to some worthless man. That happened so often that it was hardly a matter of remark. And now here was another case.

Mma Makutsi reached out and touched the young woman lightly on the arm. “If you come with me, my sister,” she said, “I will take you to Mma Ramotswe. She is sitting inside.”

“I do not want to trouble her,” said the woman. “She is very busy.”

“She is not busy right now,” said Mma Makutsi. “She will be happy to see you.”

“How much does …”

Mma Makutsi put a finger to her lips. “We do not need to talk about that just yet,” she said. “It is not as expensive as you think. And we charge according to how much people can afford to pay. We do not charge very much.”

The reassuring words had their effect, and as she entered the office with Mma Makutsi, the young woman was visibly more relaxed. And seeing Mma Ramotswe sitting behind her desk, beaming at her encouragingly, seemed to allay her fears even more.

“Mma Makutsi will make us some tea,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And I believe we have some doughnuts too! Are there doughnuts this morning, Mma Makutsi?”

“There are doughnuts,” said Mma Makutsi. “I bought three, just in case.” She had bought the third one for herself, to eat on the way home, but she would happily give it to this young woman who was now settling into the chair in front of Mma Ramotswe’s desk.

“Well,” said Mma Ramotswe. “What is it, Mma? What can the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency do for you?”

“I am a nurse,” began the young woman.

Mma Ramotswe nodded. This did not surprise her. There was something about nurses that she could always pick up—a neatness, a clinical carefulness. She could always tell.

“It is a good job,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But you have not told me your name yet.”