Scattered-Ink

It was a hot summer day when James Casey knocked on the red doors of the Carling house.               He turned the brass knob of the door gently, opened it just a fraction of the way, squeezed himself through, and shut it again noiselessly. He smoothed out his black suit of any wrinkles and adjusted his red tie, then wiped his glossy pointed shoes.               “Hello?” he asked. The word echoed around the room before a portly maid rushed in to greet him.               “Good day, Mr. Casey,” she said, her Yorkshire accent prominent. “Ms. Carling is expecting you.”               “Thank you.&rdquo