For a long time I sat with His Excellency, and then he rose, inviting me to walk with him in the Boris Gardens, as was his habit every afternoon, before going down to the sitting of the Sobranje, or Parliament.
On our way we passed Vassos, who raised his hat politely to me.
“Who’s that man?” inquired the Minister quickly, and I told him all I knew concerning the old fellow.
He grunted.
In the pretty public garden we were strolling together in the sundown, chatting upon the European unrest after the war, the new loan, and other matters, when, of a sudden, a black-mustached man in a dark grey overcoat and a round fur cap sprang from the bushes at a lonely spot, and, raising a big service revolver, fired point-blank at His Excellency.
I felt for my own weapon. Alas! it was not there! I had forgotten it!
The assassin, seeing the Minister reel and fall, turned his weapon upon me. Thereupon in an instant I threw up my hands, crying that I was unarmed, and an Englishman.
As I did so, he started back as though terrified, and with a spring he disappeared again into the bushes.
All had happened in a few brief instants, for ere I could realize that a tragedy had actually occurred, I found the unfortunate Minister lying lifeless at my feet. My friend had been shot through the heart! It was a repetition of the assassination of the Minister Stambuloff.
Readers of the newspapers will recollect the tragic affair which is, no doubt, still fresh in their minds.