The visitor inclined her head. “We have, Mma. That morning. You were walking to work.”

“Yes. I remember.”

There was silence. Mma Ramotswe waited a few moments before she spoke. “I said to you, Mma, that you could come and speak to me. I am glad that you have come.”

The woman looked up, surprised. “Why?”

“Why am I glad that you have come?” Mma Ramotswe spread her hands. “Because that is why we're here, Mma. It is our job to help people. That is what we do.”

The woman looked uncertain and Mma Ramotswe added, gently, “We do not want your money, Mma. We help everyone. You do not need to pay.”

“Then how do you eat, Mma?” asked the woman.

Mma Ramotswe smiled. “As you can tell, Mma, I am not one who does not get enough food. We eat because there are some rich people who come to us. They pay us. Rich people can be very unhappy, you know, Mma.”

The woman did not look as if she believed this. “Rich people must be very happy, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe glanced at Mma Makutsi, who had settled herself back at her desk and was following the conversation with interest.

“What Mma Ramotswe says is true,” Mma Makutsi interjected. “We have many rich people who come into this office and sit where you are sitting, Mma, in that very chair, and cry and cry, Mma. I'm telling you. Many tears—many, many tears.”

Mma Ramotswe thought this a bit of an exaggeration but did not contradict her assistant. There were people who cried in the office—that was only to be expected when people were discussing their problems—but not all of these were rich, and they generally did not cry quite the volume of tears implied by Mma Makutsi.

Mma Ramotswe sat back in her chair. “So, Mma, you are here now and we are here too. I think this would be a good time for us to talk. You must not be afraid of talking to us.”

“We tell nobody,” chipped in Mma Makutsi. “You need not worry about that.”

The woman nodded. “I know that,” she said. “Somebody told me that you people are like priests. They said that a person can tell you anything, and you will not talk about it.”

Mma Ramotswe was patient, but in the ensuing silence she glanced discreetly at her watch. She wondered whether a priest was what this woman needed; on occasion, people came into the office simply because they needed to unburden themselves of some secret. She listened, of course, to these people and she felt that it probably helped. But often she was unable to provide the thing that they needed: forgiveness. She could point them in the right direction for that, but she could not provide it. She had a feeling that this was one of those cases.

“There is something troubling you, Mma, isn't there? Something you have done?”

The woman stared at the floor. “Something I have done?” Her voice was flat—without salience. “No, Mma. It is something I am doing.”