“Like an ostrich?”

“You know what I mean, Mma. You know how ostriches run, and how they go this way and that, swerving around. Anyway, he was lucky that he didn’t make that Defence Force driver go right off the road because that would have put him in big trouble. It would be like declaring war, Mma. You don’t declare war on the Botswana Defence Force.”

Mma Ramotswe agreed that such a thing would be unwise. “I’m very sorry to hear about these stupid people on the road,” she said. “I’m sorry that we still have such people in these modern days.”

“Yes,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “And so am I.” He sniffed at the air. “Is that mutton stew, Mma? Is that what I can smell?”

“It is, Rra. There is a big pot waiting for you—for us—in the oven. It will be ready after you have washed your hands. And while we are eating, I can tell you of a very strange thing that happened to me today. Or happened to both of us, should I say. To Mma Makutsi and me.”

He went through to the bathroom to wash his hands, but they continued their conversation down the corridor. The children were never disturbed by the sound of voices and would sleep through even the most animated conversation elsewhere in the house.

“So something happened,” he called out. “You found out some big important bit of information? You won a big prize—ten thousand pula? You saw a lion under your desk?”

She laughed. “These are all quite possible developments, Rra.” For a moment she imagined Mma Makutsi suddenly whispering across the office, “Don’t make any sudden movements, Mma, but I think there is a lion under your desk. I think I can see its tail.” And she would reply, “I shall take what action is necessary, Mma Makutsi, but we really should finish dictation first …”

There came the sound of splashing water, and then the gurgle of the basin draining. “So what was it?” Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni asked. “You had a visitor?”

“Yes,” she replied.

“What did you say, Mma?”

She raised her voice. “I said yes, Rra. We had a visitor, but you will never, never guess who it was. Not in a year of guessing. Not even then, with twenty, fifty guesses a day; even then you would never get it.”

There was a momentary silence at the other end of the corridor. A tap was run again, and then there came the sound of the towel roller turning. “Well, Rra,” Mma Ramotswe went on. “Try to guess. I’ll give you one clue: he is very important.”

“That man who wrote that book of yours. What is his name? That Chlorine Andersen, or whatever he’s called.”

“Clovis, not Chlorine.”

“Him?”

She sounded crestfallen. “Yes, Rra. How did you know?”