Her dossier had been written down in five languages—and more; and now, as Juno, she had started out to carve a new career for herself, with the aid of Jimmy, whom she respected for his wit, his daring, for his past achievements and the promise he gave of attempting new and greater ones. These two represented the masculine and the feminine of all that is masterful in the life of rogues; they were the perfection of the imperfect, if the expression may be used. Jimmy was a handsome man, and one who would be noticeable in any company. He was distinguished in appearance, Chesterfieldian in his manners, graceful in his motions—a somebody in everything that he did, educated, refined by instinct and by early training; he was a graduated crook in every part and branch of the “profession.” And Juno? Draw her picture for yourself. It cannot be too strongly, too perfectly outlined. She was of that type of beauty which only the Latin races achieve, and it had been vouchsafed to her in the superlative degree. Her hair was black, beautiful, and there were masses of it. Her complexion was almost fair, but there was just enough of the olive tint to give to the red blood in her cheeks an added warmth. Her eyes were large, luminous, dreamy, or ablaze with eagerness or passion as the case might be. Her figure was perfect, her hands and her feet were “dreams for the contemplation of an artist,” her every motion was lithe, lissome, sinuous, catlike in the sense that she could not have been lacking in grace had she made the effort. Indeed, there was something about Juno’s every act which suggested the black leopard—and that was one of the aliases by which she had one time been known in Paris. Reduced to five words, Juno’s description was entirely comprehended by the expression: She was a beautiful woman. Juno’s antecedents were no less aristocratic than Jimmy’s. She, too, had been born and bred within the exclusiveness of the blue-blooded. Her father and her mother had worn titles of distinction; she had been given all the “advantages” when she was a child, and a young woman—she was that, still. She spoke many languages, and spoke each one so perfectly that it was a matter of indifference to her which one she made use of. In the long-ago, when both had been respectable children, she and Jimmy had played together. Many years after that, when Jimmy had gone to the bad, and Juno had achieved an international reputation in her various lines, they met again—to drift apart as they had done in those early days.