“I could tell him,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I could do it. If you are too embarrassed, then let me tell him. That is the simplest solution.”

“Oh, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi. “If you would do that…I know that I am being a coward, but if you would do that.”

“It is not cowardice to be weak,” said Mma Ramotswe. She stopped herself. That was not quite what she had intended to say, but Mma Makutsi seemed either not to have noticed or not to have taken offence, so Mma Ramotswe left it at that.

RARELY HAD Mma Ramotswe’s life been quite so complicated, but at least she knew what to do about it. The next morning, after sending a message to Mma Makutsi through Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni to the effect that she would be in late that day, or perhaps even not at all, she drove her tiny white van along Zebra Drive, out into the traffic of Mobutu Drive, and headed for Mochudi, on the old road. That was the road she knew well, the road she had travelled so many times before, as a child, as a young woman, and now, although still the same person in many respects, as an established and well-known citizen, the wife of a much-admired mechanic, the owner of a business with a staff of two and a half (if one counted Mr. Polopetsi). Mr. Polopetsi…It saddened her just to think about it. But that, she supposed, was often the case with anonymous letters: they came from somebody one knew, and when they were signed, as they often were, A Friend, that was indeed the case.