The guard at the booth nodded and waved as Smith passed.

Smith barely acknowledged the man.

He steered his car up the great gravel drive. A somber brick building loomed ahead, cloaked in spreading ivy.

Folcroft Sanitarium had been an exclusive retreat for the rich and eccentric since the 1920s. If a Rockefeller or Getty or Vanderbilt showed signs of what might be charitably termed "mental fatigue," Folcroft was one of the approved places they could be sent. The staff at Folcroft was always caring, efficient and, above all, quiet. After all, if old Uncle Jebediah went squiffy in the head, it was vital to remand him to the care of people who knew enough to keep the good family name from appearing in the papers. According to the Times article Smith had read, Folcroft had lived off its reputation for four decades. Unfortunately as the twentieth century rolled along, the sanitarium's fortunes faded along with those of America's nineteenth-century moneyed aristocracy. By the time the 1960s marched in, it was pretty much expected that the venerable old institution would soon have to close its doors forever.

However, those who predicted Folcroft's demise had not factored in Harold W. Smith.

Smith had come to Folcroft as director in October of 1963. In the past eight short years, he had turned the sanitarium around. In under a decade Smith transformed the mental and convalescent home that was Folcroft Sanitarium into an institution that was even more exclusive than it had been in its celebrated heyday.

On most days Smith felt some satisfaction at the work he had done to revive Folcroft. On this day he had more important things weighing on his mind.

He parked his car in his reserved space at the edge of the employee parking lot. A briefcase that had been designed to look old in order to discourage thieves sat on the front seat beside him. Smith gathered it up and headed for the side door of the building.