Phuti Radiphuti had been kept informed, and had shaken his head sadly at the news. He had met Fanwell, and he thought it highly unlikely that he had done anything dishonest, but he knew that sometimes the police could, quite reasonably, believe they had a case against an innocent man. It had happened before to one of his employees, and the poor man had spent nine months in prison for an offence that Phuti Radiphuti was convinced he had not committed. There had been evidence, though, and the conviction had been sustained on appeal, which showed, Phuti decided, that even in a well-run system of criminal justice mistakes could be made.

He was busy, though, and, although sympathetic, he had no time to brood on these matters. He had received a large order to furnish a new hotel to be built on the edge of town, and there was a great deal of paperwork to be completed in that transaction. There was also the matter of his new house, for which the foundations had now been prepared. Concrete had been poured, and the lower parts of the walls were beginning to appear, allowing the layout of the rooms to be envisaged. Like the bones of a developing skeleton, of a creature still in formation, the structure of the house was taking shape. Soon the walls would reach the height where the window spaces could be seen, and not long after that, the first beams of the roof would begin to reach out to one another. After that, it would simply be a matter of finishing, as the tilers and the plasterers, the electricians and the plumbers set about their respective tasks. Mr. Putumelo had promised to finish the whole job in two months, and it looked to Phuti as if he would easily meet that target.

Mr. Putumelo had gone out of his way to discourage visits to the site during construction. “It is best if the client doesn’t go tramping about the place,” he said. “Building sites are dangerous places, Rra. We had somebody, one of our clients, who put his hand into a cement mixer once—while it was turning.” He shook his head sadly; whether over the consequences, or whether over the whole issue of human foolishness, it was not apparent.

Phuti said nothing. He resented the implication that he was the sort of man to put his hand into a cement mixer, but his customary mildness of manner prevented his engaging in dispute with the rather arrogant builder. He thought, though, that if he wanted to visit his house, he would do so, irrespective of what Mr. Putumelo had to say about it. It was his land, after all, and he was surely entitled to walk over it if he wished, taking care, of course, not to insert his hand into any cement mixer.