Harry Attwell as Sherlock Holmes

You filed your nails that day at your desk and even picked some dead skin off your little finger because I have it right here.

This is your skin.

What is wrong with you?

Take your skin.

Oh, please, please stop giving women skin.

It is hers.

It is from her desk.

She is lying.

And this, this performance unnerves me greatly.

But performance?

You recall the case of the Beryl Coronet, John.

I was able to observe the tells of Alexander Holder and that of his brother, that they, in fact, illustrated their lies subconsciously.

Their fiction was signalled in movements of their limbs and eyes.

But this, this she-devil... Sherlock, just... She gives no tells.

This deceit flows out of her as if it were gospel.

There's nowhere else to go, Hayley Pycroft of Mawson and Williams.

Rather like this train.

It is stuck only to the track.

It cannot deviate from its destination and you find yourself hurtling towards the termination point of truth.

Where we shall alight onto the platforms at Revelation Station and venture into the city of resolution.