"You look for something in the trunk of Diaz, eh?"
"Perhaps."
"What for you look?"
"Maybe I was looking for an egg. Maybe I thought the clown Diaz carried a supply of freshly laid eggs in his dressing-room trunk," said Phil in a tone too low for the others to catch, all the time holding the eyes of the clown in a steady gaze.
The eyes of the clown expressed surprise, but there was so much grease paint and powder on his face that the boy could not tell whether the fellow had flushed or not.
That Diaz was angry, however, was clear.
"What you mean?" demanded the clown, with a threatening gesture.
"If you do not know, I don't believe I care to explain just now."
"What you mean?" repeated the clown, his voice rising to a higher pitch. "You—you think I a thief?"
"If I thought so I might be too courteous to say so," was the calm retort. "What makes you imagine that I think you a thief? You must have some reason—you must believe there is some truth in your self-accusation, or you would not be so quick to resent it."