Mma Ramotswe, though, reached out and placed a hand on Mr. Polopetsi’s shoulder. “Listen to me, Mr. Polopetsi,” she said, her voice lowered. “Who among us has not done something stupid?” Her gaze fell on Mma Potokwane before returning to Mr. Polopetsi. “I have done some very foolish things in my life. Everybody has.” She was thinking of her earlier marriage to Note Mokoti, that dangerous, seductive trumpeter; that violent and unpleasant man who thought nothing of breaking hearts one after the other; that wasteful and grasping man who had come back to wheedle money out of her and whom, in spite of everything, she had forgiven even as she told him never to come back into her life.

Her words seemed to cheer Mr. Polopetsi. “Do you think you can sort it out, Mma Ramotswe?” he asked, his voice rising in hope. “Do you really think so?”

Mma Ramotswe pursed her lips. “I shall try,” she said. “And we shall start with Mma Makutsi.”

At the mention of Mma Makutsi, Mr. Polopetsi gave a nervous start. It was an open secret that he had always been a bit frightened of Mma Makutsi, even if he admired her greatly. “I won’t have to speak to her by myself, will I?” he asked.

Mma Ramotswe looked thoughtful. “I think it’s best for us to face up to our own mistakes,” she said.

His face fell, and seeing this, she added, “Except sometimes. So, yes, Rra, I’ll help you. I’m not frightened of Mma Makutsi.” She was tempted to add except sometimes, but she decided enough had been said and anything further might simply make the situation more difficult than it already was. So she said nothing, which is what Clovis Andersen said is often exactly the right thing to say.

Least said, soonest ended, he had written. Mma Ramotswe had studied this aphorism very closely. Something was not quite right. Had a letter dropped out back in Muncie, Indiana, and did it make any difference?

She looked again at Mr. Polopetsi. He was a good man, she thought, even if he could be rather naïve. But then she reflected on the fact that of all the failings that any of us might have, naïvety was far from being the worst.

There was something she wanted to ask him. “Mr. Polopetsi,” she began, “you say that you made twenty-five per cent on your investment in the Fat Cattle Club. Did you actually get the money?”

He looked surprised. “Of course. It was in cash.”

Mma Ramotswe absorbed this information. It was clear to her what had happened: Mr. Polopetsi was the innocent recruiter; he would have been paid exactly what he had been promised so that he could bring others into the scheme with the conviction of one who has seen the whole thing work. “And the money?” she asked. “What have you done with it?”