They reached the turn-off to Mokolodi, and David nosed the taxi down the road which led in the direction of the game park. There were several houses in the bush to one side, and lights shone out from one or two of these, but for the rest they were in darkness. After a while, Mr Polopetsi tapped his friend on the shoulder and told him to extinguish the headlights.

“We can go very slowly from here,” he said. “Then you can park under a tree and wait until I come back. Nobody will see you.”

They stopped, and the car’s engine was turned off. Now Mr Polopetsi got out of the car and closed the door quietly behind him. It was utterly still, apart from the sound of insects, the persistent chirruping sound that seems to come from nowhere and from everywhere. It was a curious sound, which some people said was the sound of the stars calling their hunting dogs. He looked up. There was no moon that night, and the sky was filled with stars, so high, so white, that they were like an undulating blanket above him. He turned round to find south, and there it was, low down in the sky, as if suspended by something that he could not see, the Southern Cross. He had seen that constellation at night from the window of the prison, from the board and blankets that was his bed, and it had, in a strange way, sustained him. He was unjustly imprisoned; what had happened had not been his fault, and the sight of the stars had reminded him of the smallness of the world of men and their injustices.

Now he made his way to a point in the fence below the main gate. He pulled the strands of wire apart and slipped through. To his right there were the lights of the staff houses, squares of yellow in the black. He paused, waiting to see if there was anybody about; people might sit outside their houses on a warm night like this, but tonight there was nobody. Mr Polopetsi moved on. He knew exactly what he had to do, and he hoped that there would be no noise. If there was, then he would have to run off into the bush and crouch down until it had subsided. But with the bag that he had in his hand, there was no reason why it should not be quiet, and quick. And in the morning they would find out what had happened and there would be talk, but the fear, the dread that he had sensed, would be over. They would be pleased—all of them—although they would never be able to thank him because he would have acted in complete secrecy. Mma Ramotswe would thank him for it; he was sure of that.